The rider soon quieted him to a walk; but they were abreast of the scene of Power's accident before he was aware that the man clasping his body had uttered neither word nor groan, though the prancing of the horse must have caused him intense agony. "By Jove!" came the involuntary cry, "you've got some sand! I'd have squealed like a stuck pig if I was asked to endure that. Who are you? I'm Robert H. Benson, Mr. Marten's private secretary." "My name is Power," was the answer, in a thick murmur. "Bower?" "No--Power." "Not John Darien Power, who was at Sacramento!" "Yes." "Gee whizz! I've written you several letters. You remember my initials, R. H. B.?" "Yes." "Can you talk? Say if you'd rather not." "No, no. It's all right. Anyhow--I'd--sooner--try." "Does the boss know you're here?" "I guess not. I wrote him--to Denver; but he's been engaged--otherwise." "Ra-ther! Getting wed. You've heard? I'm sure you're as much surprised as any of us. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he told me why I was wired to come West by next train from New York. 'I want you to take hold,' he said. 'I'm off to Europe for six months on my wedding trip.' That was the day before yesterday, and here he's gone already! I had a sort of notion, too, that our beloved employer would never take unto himself a wife, or, if he did, that the U. S. A. would hear about it." A hard smile illuminated the pallor of Power's face. "Marten doesn't hire a brass band when he has any startling proposition in mind," he said. Benson laughed. He was a cheerful, outspoken youngster--exactly the kind of private secretary the secretive millionaire might have been expected to avoid like the plague, if Marten had not chosen him deliberately because of those very qualities. "No," he chuckled. "You and I know that, don't we? But signing on for a wife is a different matter to securing an option on a placer mine. I should have thought there would be things doing when H. M. joined the noble army of benedicts, especially after he had sorted out such a daisy.... Sorry, Power! The peak of this saddle must be dashed uncomfortable. And, perhaps, I'm not carrying you to rights. One ought to be taught these things. Now, a cavalry soldier would be trained in the art of picking up a wounded mate, and in carrying him, too." "It's not far. I can last out." "You don't mind having a pow-wow? Guess you prefer it? You knew Miss Willard, I suppose? By the way, were you coming to the wedding?" "No. I am here by chance." "Well, of course, I rather fancied that. If I had been asked offhand how much time that Sacramento job would use up, I should have said another three months, at least. Is all the machinery there?" "Yes." "Pumps, and all?" "Yes." "Sorry if I appear inquisitive, but----" "The pumps are working. I got a hustle on the contractors." "Great Scott! I should think so, indeed. They'll make a song about it in Chicago. Have you sent in the consulting engineer's certificate?"